


If He Give Me Way

by leiascully



Category: Coriolanus - Shakespeare
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1526153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcius discovers there are many ways to serve Aufidius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If He Give Me Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeesuperhero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/gifts).



It is wordless between them in the end. Aufidius reaches out for Marcius' hand and Marcius clasps the fingers of his enemy, now ally. Aufidius' grip is strong and warm. There is no disdain or triumph in his welcome. He seems as sincere as his kiss - his kiss, unexpected and unexpectedly tender, and the skin around Marcius' lips still tingles from the rasp of Aufidius' beard. Marcius feels as if he has stepped into a hot bath; the warmth of Aufidius' hospitality stings sweet and painful after the chill of his banishment and his journey. Dumb and sore and clumsy with wonder and longing and loneliness, he follows Aufidius to the hall, a place of noise and light, laid with a feast and crowded with senators. Aufidius seats him at the head of the table, in a place of honor, and presents Marcius to the assembled guests as if Marcius is a gift from the gods to his house and hearth. It is strange, after weeks of hooded and dusty anonymity, to be the center of attention. Marcius is hailed with joy and gratitude, given the choicest morsels from the serving platters, and toasted by the party. Those setting instantly to strategy are scolded to let him eat and drink his fill. Between bites, he reveals the weaknesses of Rome, the pricking of his conscience soothed by a fresh surge of fury at the betrayal of his countrymen. Aufidius hangs over the back of his chair, laughing, his arm slung companionably over Marcius' shoulder.

After the meal, Aufidius leads him to a chamber, modestly furnished but much more comfortable than the bare earth that has been his bed of late. There is a bed, at least, and a chair and a table, and around the room, there are oil lamps, giving the chamber a warmer glow than moonlight can provide.

"Take your ease, my friend," Aufidius says with affectionate pride. "Someone will bring you food and water and fresh robes. I will return when I have seen to my other guests."

Marcius nods, not trusting his tongue. It has soured more than one welcome for him. Aufidius smiles as if they share a secret and takes his leave to tend to his duties as host. Marcius stands in the center of the room for several long moments and then slowly removes his cloak. It is dusty and ragged. He shakes it out as best he can and folds it over a stool. There is a knock at the door and a servant enters with warm water in a basin. Marcius finds voice enough to thank her, and she bows. He finds he nearly preferred the mild disdain she showed this vagabond on her master's doorstep to the adoration and hunger on the faces of those who recognize Coriolanus. She leaves him to bathe in peace, and when he has washed the sweat and dirt of the road from his body, there is more wine, and soft clean clothes in which to dress. They take away his old clothes to mend and wash, and then Marcius is alone. There is little to occupy his mind. He paces, weary but restless. In his mind, he composes a letter to his wife, telling her he is safe and bearing his regards. A pointless exercise: he has no way to send such a missive, and he does not wish to cause her further difficulty. He turns his mind to his body instead, running through a slow pattern of movements to loosen the tightness of his muscles and counter the aches of hard travel. Aufidius enters just as Marcius is completing the pattern, his limbs warm and limber and his mind at rest.

"Always the warrior," Aufidius says setting down a flagon of wine. "Are you ever far from the battlefield, my friend?"

"Is not our existence a battle?" Marcius asks, his tongue loosened along with his muscles. "You and I were born to strive thus."

"That may be so," Aufidius says, chuckling. He pours wine for them both.

Marcius lifts his cup and hesitates. "Are we friends then, you and I?" he asks.

"What else? "Aufidius asks, wetting his red lips with wine. "My worthiest opponent is surely worthy of being named my friend. No other understands so intimately the challenges I have endured, nor the limits of my endurance. "

"I was not aware that you were limited," Marcius murmurs, sipping at his own wine. "I have never felt you tire, nor has your blade slipped against mine. "

"Then we have concealed as much as we revealed," Aufidius says.

"I thought myself laid bare before you," Marcius tells him.

"You shall be," Aufidius says, grinning. "We shall share heart and mind and breath in this matter." He feints towards Marcius, still smiling, and grasps Marcius by the back of the head with the hand not holding his wine. Marcius' heart quickens. His body is tense with anticipation, waiting for the solid contact of Aufidius' frame.

"How glad I was to see you on my doorstep," Aufidius says softly. "I have longed for a taste of your prowess. Who might stand against us if we have merged our strengths?"

"Perhaps not even the gods," Marcius says. He can taste the wine on Aufidius' breath, so close is the face of his host. His body has not relaxed, despite the fact that Aufidius clearly presents him no threat.

"To have you here, close enough to embrace-it is more than I imagined," Aufidius says. "No comrade could be more hoped for." He presses his forehead to Marcius'.

"I hope that I shall render all service you desire," Marcius says.

Aufidius laughs. "We shall serve each other, measure for measure, and the gods will bless our union with harmony and rejoice in our victories," he declares.  
Marcius has nothing else to say. He has been blessed beyond what he deserves. He can feel the triumphant joy radiating from Aufidius as they stand pressed close to each other, and it quickens something in him that has long been stifled. They have been as close many times before, but always locked in combat, muscles tight as they grappled in deadly earnest. The force pulling Marcius' body taut now has little to do with fighting. The heat rising in him is not for the joy of battle, but for the nearly-forgotten joy of a more pleasurable grappling. He has had little time for pleasure in the last few years. He had thought his body had forgotten, but it is remembering as Aufidius presses closer. Something stirs in his belly, in his chest, in his loins: desire, for something other than the copper tang and aching thud of battle. He tips his face forward until his lips meet Aufidius' and Aufidius leans into the pressure. His mouth is soft and rough at once flavored with wine, passionate and knowing. The rasp of his beard strikes a spark that breathes new life into the embers in Marcius' belly. Aufidius sighs into Marcius' mouth, and the sound is hungry and satisfied at once.

"Have I been in your dreams as well, Marcius?" he asks, pulling away.

"Ever," Marcius says, dazed. His fingers loosen around his wine and he puts the cup on the table to avoid spilling it. "I have longed for your company, on the field of war and off, as the only equal of my skill."

"And did you imagine that we might be united in purpose and in desire?" Aufidius asks.

"I have known your form as well as my own," Marcius murmurs. "With my eyes open or closed."

"Show me my scars then," Aufidius challenges. "Name the prizes I have won from you." He steps back and loosens his clothing. He sets down his wine and pulls his tunic over his head, revealing a strong, lean body marked with lurid purple scars and pale white ones. Marcius steps forward and reaches out to run his palms over Aufidius' chest. Aufidius' skin is warm, somehow more alive than anyone that Marcius has ever touched, and his chest rises and falls under Marcius' touch. Aufidius smiles, and his teeth gleam against his dark beard.

"This you had of me," Marcius murmurs, tracing a puckered scar with his fingertips. His hands wander over Aufidius' chest and shoulders; the broad muscles there are firm with the potential of movement. "You stumbled over a bit of brick. And this is the work of my sword. Here is where my dagger kissed you."

"And what a kiss it was," Aufidius says. Marcius feels the rumble of the words through the palms of his hands. "It nearly took my breath and blood, that kiss."

"You might kiss me in return," Marcius offers.

"I think I would not need steel to take your breath tonight," Aufidius says, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"You may have my breath," Marcius says, "as Antium may have my blood."

"We shall see," Aufidius says, and leans forward. His lips are demanding this time, possessive, and Marcius is glad to be possessed. After weeks of exile, the sensation of belonging is intoxicating. Marcius welcomes Aufidius' lips claiming his mouth and Aufidius' hands undoing the ties of Marcius' tunic and trousers. He grows bolder, fumbling at what remains of Aufidius' clothing until they are both down to the skin, scars and hair limned copper and gold by the candlelight. They have used their bodies hard and often for war; now they will use them for sweeter pleasures.

"I am in your service," Marcius breaths as Aufidius releases him. "Command me, my lord."

"We shall serve each other," Aufidius says. "I would not have you on your knees before me, Marcius." He grins. "Unless I might also kneel to you, and return your service in equal measure."

He pulls Marcius close, kissing him again, and now in addition to lips there are tongues and teeth, the embrace a joyous scuffle. They say nothing; there is nothing to say that their bodies cannot speak with silent eloquence. Marcius is so immersed in the heat of Aufidius' mouth that he hardly notices the way his own hips have begun to thrust very gently into the last sliver of space between them until Aufidius closes that gap. Suddenly there is the hard muscle of his thighs against Marcius', and the sharp jut of his hip, and the firm length of his cock, and Marius gasps at the dizzying rush of pleasure. He thrusts again, overeager, and the tender skin of their cocks catches and tugs. Marcius winces, but the pain of it is welcome to him, familiar. He moves to thrust again; the reward seems greater than the payment.

"Hold," Aufidius says, drawing away. He blows out the flame on one of the lamps and waits. Marcius stands gazing at him, bereft. He would not have thought he could long for Aufidius so much in so short a time, but perhaps it has been lying in wait for him, a fulfillment of a long promise. Aufidius gazes at him with hungry eyes; Marcius can feel the blood thudding in his veins. Aufidius lifts the lamp and tips a little oil into his palm, and then, gazing at Marcius, a little more. He reaches out takes Marcius' hand, holding it flat and open, and turns the cup of his hand over Marcius' palm, slicking it with oil. Marcius' skin tingles and prickles with the heat of it, and then Aufidius is kissing him again and he forgets the sting of the oil in his palm in the glory of Aufidius' demanding mouth. Their bodies meet again and delicate skin would find a rough welcome except for the oil-glazed grasp of Aufidius' hand as it wraps around Marcius' cock.

"Ah!" Marcius says, or he would, but he has no breath to make a sound. It is a noiseless exclamation. Aufidius grins against his mouth.

"Have you no hand in this?" he murmurs, and Marcius dumbly reaches down with his own glossy fingers to caress the length and strength of Aufidius. Aufidius has his own wordless moment. His mouth slips against Marcius' until his lips graze Marcius' jaw; Aufidius nips at the underside until Marcius gasps and tilts his head back, baring the line of his throat to Aufidius' searching lips. He tightens his grip on Aufidius' cock, and Aufidius grunts and thrusts harder. He nips again at Marcius' throat and Marcius pushes against him in response, his cock sliding through the slick cage of Aufidius' strong fingers. Aufidius pushes back, balance and counterbalance, but Marcius thrusts harder, challenging him, and then they are shoving against each other, grace abandoned, frantic for each other's touch.  
Marcius breaks first. It is too much, too good; he deserves nothing so fine as this. He shoves at Aufidius with his shoulder instead of his hip, dropping quickly to his knees while Aufidius recovers. He kneels before Aufidius, his fist again around Aufidius' cock, and he gazes up at his dearest enemy, begging permission. Aufidius, red lips open and panting, nods.

Marcius gazes at the organ before him: one of hundreds he has seen like it, and yet unique. He begins slowly, licking at the very head, pushing the tip of his tongue under the skin until Aufidius hisses and reaches out to take Marcius by the hair. Aufidius tastes like sweat and olive oil, and Marcius savors it before taking the cock into his mouth. It is hard, hot, silky smooth in places and softly wrinkled in others. Marcius explores every texture. He lets his hand slip further down so that his mouth can follow; though he cannot accommodate the whole, he wants as much of Aufidius in him as he can manage. His fingertips stretch to caress the sensitive skin below, and Aufidius hisses again. Marcius smiles at the faint pain of Aufidius' grip on his hair. He will gladly serve this penance to the end of time.

The tugging on his hair becomes more and more insistent as Marcius licks his blissful way around Aufidius' cock, until the urgency of it cannot be ignored. Aufidius hauls until Marcius releases his hold and stands, only to find Aufidius pressed hard against him, so hard that Marcius stumbles backwards until he falls onto the bed. Aufidius falls on top of him, running his oiled palm over Marcius' thighs and then thrusting hard into the space between them as he at once recaptures Marcius' cock in the hot circle of his fingers and Marcius' mouth with the hot circle of his lips. Marcius strains up gladly against Aufidius' solid weight, one hand pulling at Aufidius' hair and one squeezing at Aufidius' ass, his fingers wandering around and between Aufidius' thighs to find a new angle for his explorations.

Aufidius moans and bites and thrusts and Marcius does not know how he can stand it; he is so close to unraveling himself, his legs tangled with Aufidius' and his breath short. And then Aufidius comes, bucking and shivering between Marcius' thighs, spilling hot fluid and gasping into the hollow of Marcius' throat, and Marcius cannot bear another moment. His back arches; he lunges up into Aufidius' grasp with a sudden shout, and Aufidius grits out his name. In moments, or an eternity, it is finished. Marcius collapses under Aufidius, his cock still alive with tiny spasms. Aufidius chuckles and wipes his hand on the blanket of the bed.

"Marcius," he says, "my warrior," and when he kisses Marcius again (the taste of salt and olive oil between them, the heat of breath and the edge of teeth making their lips throb), it is a knowing kiss, a possessive kiss, a kiss that will brand them both. Marcius lies under the comfort of Aufidius' body, still half-covering his own, and brushes at the stickiness on his stomach. No matter. He will wash again, later, before they face the senators; it would be pointless to wash now, when Aufidius regards him with such tender and infinite appetite.

"Shoulder to shoulder we shall ride," Aufidius promises. "To Rome, and beyond Rome, if you will stay at my side."

"I will deliver unto you any trifle you desire," Marcius swears.

"What you have brought me is no trifle," Aufidius says, smiling. "I promised you measure for measure, and you have overcome me. Bide a while and I will display my own skill, and see if I might overmaster you with a wordless tongue."

"A worthy proposal from the worthiest opponent," Marcius says. "I accept."

"Now rest," Aufidius commands, and Marcius obeys.


End file.
